Year II - Issue XXIII
Friday Night Features is a weekly feature designed to showcase
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White Trashedyour lips are moving, forming words but there's no sound,
only the mechanical drone of the wires in the walls.
i'm sure whatever you're saying must be incredibly profound,
because i can feel my head nodding in agreement with your thoughts.
the lights are swaying in the breeze, even though we're in the basement,
bright to dim to bright again, it's distracting..
i am suddenly hurled back into reality
when my cigarette burns down to my fingers.
i drop it and grind it into the carpet with a curse,
it leaves a black mark shaped like the devil's eye..
i'm drifting again.
you never even skipped a beat, still going on about whatever it was
Organic AnimationA mind handed down in forgetful afterthought;
tossed to the wind and left to float on
endless sound waves. Her fingers strike fear
in the cores of her strings; resonating cosmic
vibration to the hearts of nameless transients.
Separated by annual oceans, one wonders at the
souls dripping through the cracks of a
fractured society. Why so many are bound to
fall, while a small few reach the last solid
ground in the macrocosm.
Twice damned in a flawless rendition of
organic animation; she enters the dreams of sleep
for a final performance.
huethere were children painting in the snow today
and their mittens were covered in this beautiful bright red paint
"didn't you hear?"
i was sitting as the snow fell
decaffeinated but wide-eyed
and the women at the bar had their jaws oiled
with obituary gossip and hotel rumor
but like a missed spot on a chalkboard you can't help but see,
i couldn't help but hear them
damned newspaper ears
winter was the season for me
there's too much grey area in the summer
with too many shades and
too many sputters
i held my book an inch from my nose
so the ink would blot out the café colorings
but you can't hear books and the closest you can ge
DormantWinter is a blank slate,
but not like Rousseau's
sucking out warmth like poison
leaving only windburnt frost
tacked to the window pane
all we remember
is the numbness
skittish steps across the ice
snowflakes pasted to our faces
smoke rising from our lips
dragged across bleak clouds
winter has us captured
bound by fur and walls
drifting in our eggshelled silence
bone cold until we birth ourselves by warmth
emerge from our shells wet and heaving
uncurl our fingers one by one
joints crackling like fire at our backs
until spring comes
drip by tender drip
old wounds thaw
we are found raw,
salty insomniait was a quarter past midnight
and everything spoke in the rain.
the trees, the windows,
all murmured softly
and the girl lying under the sheets
insomnia-riddled and morning-
crushed, she searched the darkness for
dreams she could only have while awake
and the monsters under her bed
so she pressed a hand against her lips
and tried to stop her lungs from crackling
evanescent snippets of sleep left her drained,
as though the rain had washed the rest of the world away
while her eyes were closed
and she had been left alone.
when she gave up on sleep entirely
MonologueSpinal fluid seems to be seeping between the cracks
Of the dark hardwood floors beneath me
As if all the cartilage from my being
Has been used to paste together an arthropod heart
I’ve white washed my pupils and folded them
Into hazy envelopes and sent them off to strangers
ChimeraMy body's honeycombed rich with moth eggs–
nightly hatch, sub-dermis, to leak fire
in my veins— as dreams. I, in waking, beg,
craven, their shapeless hauntings when I tire.
Is it waking doubly spent; mind's eye-worms,
day loops, memory tangles, quilt-stitched for
sleep? Affix'd in my brain,— I wish these terms
of bondage; sweep to otherness my core,
liquor my blood stiff, brew the ether's mist
for nightish wonderings, logic make dead.
Though they shuffle truths and law to exist,
one can say 'tis that is,' or, 'twas a dream.'
They're no more true than from what one makes them.
And lying selfly is the worst of crimes.
Angel of DeathI taste gunmetal
on your lips, you are
beyond my reach, death lingers
behind your far away eyes,
bullets fall from the sky.
We made love
on an unmarked grave,
our flesh carved the stone
the look in your eyes an elegy
how beautiful the Angel of Death is.
you are the absence
that i learned to love
only when my young heart
knew only how to care
for the things
which were not there
but that empty air
will never mean to you
what it does to me
i am that which fills
your void, and you
are that which fills
time spent together
is best when silent
blue rose into the city backdrop
like balloons, a million for the
morning sun prelude.
i've not slept a dream
but i have cried a salty face
and letters spilled like beans
into my moleskine,
almost as virgin as i once was
with few stories between my covers.
the kettle's belly boils
like my head upon a pillow.
i am guilty for rarely finishing my tea
even when i use the small mugs;
pour, rinse, repeat.
perhaps today i will play dead.
perched behind my blinds
it dawns on me that i am surrounded
by walled neighbours, strangers,
they're just preludes to lovers
the way i am always
prelude to the one.
6:30:09what i wouldn't give
to have my body sink down
into yours, cocooned
in the tumultuous quicksand
of human flesh.
i have never been so moved
as by your touch, the slinking seeping
brush. the universe dispels
and in the absence of everything,
i am less alone
than i have ever been.
The Unthinkable.Just tonight,
I'll release my demons
from their cave inside my head,
let my ever-gnawing hearts whispers
from my ribs and out of my flesh to you.
Only to you.
I'll let the hidden yearning
dare to breathe in
a small sample
of what you taste like,
sweet, soft and warm,
mixed in with a dash
of bitter ash.
The light will swim across
your beautiful, caramel eyes
spilling along the outline of your face;
letting me see the younger side to you.
The tiny fleck of innocence left,
I'd swear, it has to be
residing somewhere in
those two circles.
I'll let my hands dare to search out
the scars left on your body
on wet roadsv. She wasn't meant to be helped. We are all wrung from the same breaded soil, bound by our virginal ties to bareback earth. And so maybe it's okay to be a beggar, then, cradling this age-old fatigue.
xcvi. "Here, try this."
Nothing had ever sensitized me more than the smell of green, carried heavily on gusts of crisp oceanic air. The world slowly began to fade around me, and I let my head drop to my knees while the gentle rush of sea teemed humble volumes of vibrant aural stimulation.
"I don't really care who it is, you know. All I want is someone real."
An hour passed in silence. "Lift up your head." It's too heavy for me to carry, plea
the suicidal siren callI wonder if my death would be more beautiful
prominent and poignant
if I took a strand of Christmas lights,
plugged them into my soul
charged them with all my anger
and strung myself from the ceiling with them.
or perhaps repainting the bathtub
to a deep and luscious crimson
let the cold steel be the brush and
the canvas a faded rust beneath me,
for modern art is about the statement made
not the outcome,
and is open
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